


Black Mischief

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [18]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, TaB
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 05:10:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10482813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: In Victorian London, John Watson writes up a case that cannot be published.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Well, these things are posting much more slowly than I planned. But, in part, that is because I seem to have lost the plot completely on these Postcard Tales, which were supposed to be little vignettes. But I was having fun writing this. And I hope you will as well while reading it.
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you.

The loyal readers of these modest accounts concerning the many adventures that I have been privileged to share with my good friend and stalwart companion, the estimable Mr Sherlock Holmes, will be aware that the facts of some of the investigations we undertake are too sensitive to publish, at least while those involved are still alive.

Sometimes that sensitivity is because those persons dwell within the sphere of royalty. Or they may be entangled with the government, in which instance most often the matter will have been brought to our attention through the offices of Holmes’ brother, whom I have mentioned before in my accounts.

On other occasions, what we uncover in the course of Holmes’ investigations might simply be of too delicate a nature to be revealed to the general public. Parenthetically, I should make note of the fact that my friend has often insisted that I ought to term the investigations as ‘ours’ rather than merely his. It is a habit I am endeavouring to develop.

But on to the point of this preface.

If I am to be completely honest in this accounting, I must admit that the details of those most sensitive investigations, which cannot now be published, are nevertheless sometimes still written down and then filed safely away, in the hope that at some future time it might be possible to make the tale public. Even if Holmes and I are long gone I imagine---or hope?--- that someone might still care.

The tale that I am about to relate, which regards the theft of the infamous Black Mischief, is one of those. I am writing it all down now, but my words will not appear on the printed page for a very long time. Perhaps I am being rather too optimistic about the future, but Holmes would say that is my nature. Knowing what you know of his own somewhat taciturn nature [as portrayed by my own jottings and we all know that Holmes often accuses me of embellishment of the facts] you might believe that he intends the description as a criticism. I do not take it that way. Sometimes casting a more cheerful aspect on a matter can illuminate the facts.

But I am rambling [which I undoubtedly do far too often and when Holmes points _that_ fact out it is indeed meant as a criticism] and so I will get to the heart of the matter.

 

_The Adventure of the Black Mischief_

 

A thick grey miasma had settled over London two days earlier and showed no sign of dissipating any time soon. That gloomy occurrence unfortunately coincided with a lull in clients appearing at the door of 221B in search of help. Such a combination of events had made our rooms quite unbearable. Holmes sulked and ranted in turn and we both turned to the pipe much too often, causing poor Mrs Hudson to cough and, quite rightly, complain every time she set foot into our parlour. I was beginning to fear that Holmes would turn to stronger measures to alleviate his boredom. Given all of that, it was no surprise that by the third day I was desperately wishing that I still had my medical practice, if only so I would have somewhere to go.

Abruptly, Holmes ceased his frenetic pacing, coming to a stop very close to the chair, where I had ensconced myself with a fat and rather dull nautical history. I glanced up from the wordy description of some long forgotten sea battle against the Spanish and met his gaze. What I saw was not the stormy and turbulent expression that had been obvious across our luncheon table earlier, but a more thoughtful aspect. This was not the first time over recent months when I had caught my friend making such a careful examination. Occasionally, it caused me to feel a bit like some insect that Holmes had pinned to a card in order to make a good study of its secrets.

My secrets are mine, I feel, and so I was about to reprimand him for his rudeness [not that my previous attempts to shame him had ever succeeded] but before I could speak, he whirled around and went to the window, peering eagerly out at the murky scene below.

“Aha, Watson!” he cried. “We are saved from ourselves yet again. A client, finally!”

I might have remarked upon his curious comment--- _saved from ourselves_?---but by that time we could hear Archie showing the new arrival up the stairs. All I could do was resolve to think about his odd words at a later time.

In the meanwhile, Holmes had placed himself in front of the mantel, assuming his usual pose [not that he would ever admit to such a thing] of world weary Consulting Detective ready to hear yet another sad tale.

Our visitor was a man of middling years, somewhat older than Holmes and myself and of a much stouter figure. Judging by his wardrobe, he was also considerably more in funds than either of us. He swept the high hat from his balding head, revealing the scant remnants of ginger hair. “Mr Holmes?” he said; his voice was authoritative, but his eyes darted between us, showing uncertainty.

“How was your journey from Wimbledon?” Holmes asked in his usual lackadaisical tone.

“I have heard of your clever tricks,” the man said sounding distinctly unimpressed as he removed a calling card from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it out. “My name is Geoffrey Stewart.”

When Holmes did not move, I stood and took the card.

“And you are?” Stewart said to me.

Well, he did not appear to be a man who spent much time perusing the pages of the Strand magazine, so perhaps it was no surprise that he did not expect to find anyone besides Holmes here.

Before I could reply, Holmes did. “This is my friend Dr John Watson. He has my complete confidence and you may speak as freely before him as you do before me.”

It must be admitted that no matter how many times those words are uttered, I still felt a tremor of delight that a man like Holmes had such faith in me. Of course, perhaps it was only fair, as I had long ago invested every iota of my trust in him. This remained true despite those times that the threads of that trust were severely frayed. But we do not speak of those years. There was an unspoken acknowledgment that each of us had made grievous errors; Holmes by letting me believe for nearly three years that he was dead and myself for entering into an ill-advised marriage. Ill-advised because I could never commit fully to my wife and also because, in the end, she was not the woman I had thought her to be. Her death, although sad, had been inevitable.

Now I was back in the rooms on Baker Street, back with Holmes, and it felt right. In truth, it felt so very right that sometimes it frightened me.

Damnation. Holmes is, of course, correct. I do ramble far too much. The entire previous passage should be excised from the narrative. And if this were headed for immediate publication, it most assuredly would be. For now, I will leave it.

I waved Stewart towards the client chair, while I resumed my own seat. Holmes finally left his post by the fire and strolled across the room. As he passed me, I held Stewart’s card out and he plucked it from my hand. Once settled, he turned the card over in his long fingers, no doubt reading more from it than Stewart would have appreciated.

He inclined his head and Stewart took that as permission to proceed. “I assume that you have heard of the Black Mischief?” he said.

I had not, but Holmes nodded. “An infamous brooch thought to have once belonged to Marie Antoinette, although that is most probably apocryphal. Rare black pearls surrounding a large black diamond. Three months ago it was sold at auction to an unknown buyer. That buyer was you, I presume?”

Stewart nodded. 

Holmes glanced at me. “Watson, with your flair for the lurid it might interest you to know that there is also a curse attached to Mr Stewart’s missing brooch."

I glared at him, but then one corner of his mouth twitched just a bit. I realised the remark had been intended not as a criticism, but rather as a private jape between us and so, instead of indignation, I felt only a hint of warmth. It was time for my trusty writing pad to emerge so that I could begin recording the details of the case. My lap desk was sitting nearby, so I opened it and lifted out the pad, my pen and the inkwell. I uncapped my pen and jotted _The Black Mischief_ at the top of the page.

Meanwhile, Stewart gave a growl. “A curse? I don’t believe in such folderol. And how do you even know that the brooch is missing?”

“Why else would you be in my sitting room on such an unpleasant day? The journey from Wimbledon must have been tedious in the extreme, but nevertheless you felt it important to make the trip.”

That point was conceded with a wave of one plump hand.

“The question is why you did not seek the help of Scotland Yard. Even given their limitations, it would seem the place a man like you would turn.” Holmes studied Stewart for a moment and then gave his professional smile. “Ah, yes. I see. You suspect someone close to you to be guilty of the theft and so you prefer to see it handled privately.”

Stewart seemed irritated rather than impressed by this deduction and I very nearly frowned at him. When one came asking Sherlock Holmes for help it seemed churlish to then not appreciate his talents. 

“Have you considered taking your act onto the stage?” Stewart muttered.

I _considered_ inviting him to leave.

But Holmes simply pyramided his hands and waited.

Stewart finally gave in to the necessity of telling us the facts. “The brooch was purchased as a third anniversary gift for my wife. This is a second marriage for each of us, both our previous spouses having passed on. Additionally, we each have a son from those marriages. The boys have never struck it off well, although they are of an age, twenty now. It is my belief that each of them fears for his own inheritance. Frankly, I am so weary of their attitudes that it is tempting to leave everything to a charity. Perhaps the RSPCA, as I am fond of dogs.”

“Yes, yes,” Holmes muttered. “Very commendable. Which one do you suspect of stealing the broach?”

I paused, pen in the air, waiting to write down the name of the suspect.

Stewart frowned. “I suspect them both equally,” he said. “That is why I am here.”

Such was the case he put before us. Disregarding the extraneous details about doomed French queens and deadly curses, it was fairly simple. Was his own son or his stepson a thief? Either possibility was clearly painful for him to contemplate and as irritating as I found Stewart, I still rather pitied him in this situation. He made it clear that, assuming he was correct in his suspicions, whichever young man emerged as the culprit, he would not be turned over to the authorities, both from sentiment and [more importantly, I think] to avoid a scandal. The guilty party would be disinherited and banished from the family estate near Wimbledon.

After all of the particulars had been recorded, Holmes sent Stewart on his way, promising that we would be with him the next morning. I sat again, studying my notes, but found no inspiration there. After a brief interlude, Holmes was suddenly a burst of activity, donning his coat and wrapping a scarf snugly around his neck.

I glanced out the window. The day had not improved. But if I were needed, of course…

“Do not disturb yourself, my friend,” Holmes said, reading my thoughts as always. “I am merely intending to make a few enquiries in some of the less salubrious parts of the city, nothing dangerous at all, so you may stay warm and dry in here.”

I might have pointed out that Sherlock Holmes could find danger in places where most people would be perfectly safe, but he hated it when I fussed. “Pause on your way out and ask Mrs Hudson to bring me up some tea, would you, please?” was all I said.

Then I stood at the window and watched him emerge from the front door. Tall, slim, imperious. Sherlock Holmes, my dearest friend. A slightly tarnished knight, charging into his realm, ready to vanquish evil. Yes, I plead guilty to having a romantic streak. 

Of late my thoughts had taken a very dangerous turn when it came to Holmes and I had no idea what to make of it all. As Holmes paced energetically up Baker Street, searching for a growler, I confessed to myself that the thoughts I was having were actually very far from new. A growler stopped, Holmes climbed in and a moment later, he was lost in the murky fog.

I sat again and waited for Mrs Hudson to bring my tea.

 

*

 

During our short train ride to Wimbledon the next morning, Holmes sat silent, staring out of the window, giving me no hint of what he had discovered during his excursion the previous day. I had already been in my bed when he returned at nearly midnight.

But I have not made a close study of the other man for so long a time for naught. I could tell from the slight relaxation of his shoulders and the glint in his grey eyes that Holmes had solved the case already. All he would say when I enquired over breakfast was that he had ‘several ideas.’ I sometimes thought he enjoyed teasing me with his secrets almost as much as he enjoyed solving the cases.

It was, of course, best not to dwell upon the subject of Secrets, given my own recent thoughts as regarded Holmes.

Stewart had sent a small carriage to take us to his estate, on the far side of the town. It was pleasant to be away from the murk of London and into some sunshine, so I quite enjoyed the journey.

A rather dour butler showed us into the breakfast room, where, as per Holmes’ instructions, the family was gathered for their morning meal. No stranger myself to the tension of meals taken in an unhappy household, I could recognise the mood at once. Tolstoy was quite right in his observation about happy and unhappy families, I think. The problems of my brief marriage had been nothing like the ones facing the Stewart family, but I could, at least, recognise unhappiness when I saw it.

Stewart himself was dressed today as a country squire, but still wore the same pugnacious expression. His wife was perhaps a bit younger, with a fashionably pale complexion and no great sense of curiosity in her rather flat blue eyes.

They were joined by their respective offspring, the two sons sitting at opposite ends of the table. It was no great challenge to know which son belonged to which parent, although the young men were both of a much more stylish aspect than either of their parents. Roger Stewart shared his father’s ginger hair, the difference being that his was thick and quite artfully arranged; his suit would have been more suited to Mayfair than the countryside. Evan Malloy had the same blond hair and blue eyes of his mother and wore linen trousers and a soft jacket. Perhaps he was expecting a croquet match to break out momentarily.

After the introductions had been completed, Holmes immediately requested that Stewart and his wife leave the room. Neither was particularly pleased with this, but they obeyed. Holmes promptly closed the door to give us privacy. I joined the two young men at the table, with a cup of tea from the sideboard. Holmes, as was his wont, paced the room.

His sense of the theatrical never fails to amuse me.

After a moment filled with a somewhat strained silence, Holmes came to a stop. He fixed his gaze on the young men. “Your father thinks it is probable that one of you stole the Black Mischief.” He held up one hand to halt the protests about to emerge. In fact, he seemed to change the subject completely. “You have been very clever in putting forth the deception that you despise one another.”

Deception? What had Holmes uncovered?

Roger and Evan glanced at one another, but did not speak.

“I would venture that two young men who did not get along would not, in a most clandestine manner, take a room together in Soho. Or that they would spend so many evenings in several of the more scandalous private clubs in the city.”

The two of them had grown progressively paler as Holmes continued. “The theft of the Black Mischief was actually a plot contrived by the both of you, was it not? I assume that you were planning to sell the brooch and use the profit to flee abroad.”

I could recognise in their postures the moment when they gave up and decided to admit the truth. Evan moved to sit beside Roger.

Roger sighed, his eyes on Evan. “Canada. Or Australia” he said quietly. “We thought of making a new start where no one knows us.”

Holmes finally joined us at the table. “You do know,” he said with startling kindness, “that what is illegal here is also illegal there.”

They shrugged. “But we could have established ourselves in such a way that would not stir comment,” Evan said. “And there is much more space. Empty space.”

“So the plot was that if one of you were caught and banished with no inheritance, the other would soon find reason to leave home with his own money and join him. Rather clever, actually. Sadly for the success of your scheme, I was engaged to solve the case.”

There was a pause, during which time Evan clutched Roger’s hand.

Holmes looked at me for a moment, his expression inscrutable.

Still, I sensed that this was one of those instances wherein he would answer to something higher than either the law or even the wishes of his client. Although, honestly, I could not yet see how he could make this case turn out well for all involved. I should have known better than to doubt him.

His hands in the usual pyramided position, he seemed to consider the options, before speaking. “Give me the brooch," he ordered finally.

Evan produced the requested item from a hidden pocket in his jacket and handed the Black Mischief to Holmes. He, in turn, tucked it in his own waistcoat pocket. Then he opened the door and asked the butler to summon Mr and Mrs Stewart.

I cannot tally the many times that Holmes has decried my tendency to dramatise what he sees as a purely scientific process [although he does delight in helping me title my tales] but nothing I have done could compete with the story he fabricated that day for the Stewarts. There was not a thread of truth to be found in anything he said, but Holmes rattled through the narrative so quickly that none of us could follow the path of what he was saying.

Basically the only thing Evan and Roger were guilty of, according to the tale, was being too chatty in a pub about the brooch, leading an acquaintance to bluff his way into the house as workman and successfully steal the Black Mischief. They had suspected the truth from the start, but were too embarrassed by their unintentional complicity to confess. At the end of his explanation, Holmes assured Stewart that the brooch would be returned to the house by the end of the day.

Stewart frowned through much of the account, but did not speak until Holmes was finished “What were the two of you doing in a pub together in the first place?” he asked, looking from Evan to Roger and back again. “You have never socialised with one another.”

Holmes was prepared even for that. “They had begun to feel guilty about the rift in the family and were attempting to reconcile. The stress of this whole incident has, in fact, created something of a bond between them.”

Rather surprisingly, Roger took up the tale. “We are actually thinking of taking a holiday together,” he said. “To see a bit of the world, perhaps to become firm friends.”

Mrs Stewart looked delighted at this news. “I suppose you will want payment now,” was all Stewart himself begrudgingly said to Holmes.

By the time we left the house, a satisfactory cheque in hand, all was tranquil in the family. Once the train had returned us to London, Holmes detoured our carriage long enough to arrange with the most reliable of his ragtag network to deliver the brooch later that day, handing the boy a return fare to Wimbledon and finally we went home to Baker Street.

*

 

It was late that night, long after the rest of the household had retired, that I finally spoke up. We were comfortably sat in front of the fire, jackets and neckties replaced by dressing gowns, brandies in hand. “You were quite decent to those two young men,” I commented.

Holmes was staring into the flames. “Is there any reason that I should not have been?” he replied. “They are young and foolish. I saw no reason to ruin their lives over such a petty crime.”

“Their very life together is a crime,” I pointed out.

He only shrugged. 

The shadows from the fire were dancing across his lean face and I found him almost unbearably beautiful at the moment. “The thought of two men together does not repel you?” I said; for some reason, without intending to, I spoke in a whisper.

Holmes finally looked at me, but instead of answering my question, he merely turned it back onto me. “Does the idea repel you?”

I swallowed more brandy. “No,” I said. “If there is affection…love…how can it be wrong?”

Once while in Afghanistan, I ventured into the heart of a desperate battle to rescue an injured infantryman. Gunfire surrounded me. Blood splashed on me. The only sounds were explosions and the screams of the injured and dying. I was terrified, more frightened than ever before or since.

At least until this very moment. The old tremor was showing itself in my hand. Did I have the courage to at long last speak the truth?

“I know how fiercely you shun the softer emotions, Holmes, so I have no idea how you will receive what I am about to say…”

And now he leant forward in his chair, staring at me.

“Dammit to hell, Holmes, I love you.” Finally I had spoken aloud the deepest secret of my heart.

There was a heavy silence, which was suddenly broken by an unexpected bark of laughter.

So mockery was to be the reward for my bravery. My stupidity.

I began to plan for my immediate departure from Baker Street, although I had no idea at all where I would go. So deep in thought was I that it took me a moment to realise that Holmes had left his chair and was now kneeling in front of me. “John,” he said, “Do not look so distraught. I was laughing only because I did not realise that the ‘softer emotions’ came with profanity.”

There was an unfamiliar softness in his eyes that distracted me momentarily. “Since when do you call me John?” I asked finally.

“In my head? From the moment we met. Which was also the first time I understood that there was something to be said for those softer emotions.”

I stared at him, rather lost for words.

“I have loved you for a very long time,” he said. “But I always understood that I would probably go to my grave without ever having the opportunity of saying the words to you.”

Neither of us seemed to know what to do next.

I finally reached out one hand and rested my palm on his cheek. “You are very dear to me, Sherlock.”

He somehow folded himself into me without warning and I found my arms encircling him, holding him, embracing the man I loved. “May I take you to bed?” I murmured into his ear, wondering a bit at my newly found courage.

He only nodded and then stood, pulling me up with him.

Still silent, we walked to his room holding hands, rather like two children venturing into a new and treacherous landscape, brave only because they were together. Yes, there were certainly dangers ahead, but side by side, we could conquer them.

Sherlock Holmes and I explored that unknown landscape slowly and carefully, almost reverently, and nothing had ever seemed so right. We disrobed one another and then studied our mutual nakedness with shared delight. Our hands and lips moved across heated flesh in a pattern that felt new and yet as ancient as time.

And when, some unknown time later, we reached the peak, we moved together as one, crashing into a shared climax, and then collapsing in the most extravagant mess that could be imagined.

“John Watson,” he whispered into my ear.

“Sherlock Holmes” I murmured into his neck.

We held one another and simply breathed in unison until sleep overtook us both.

 

*

So that is _The Adventure of The Black Mischief_. A case in which both the precious object of the title and the crime to be solved ended up being the least important parts of the tale.

And, yes, it is tale that cannot now be told and perhaps will never be told. But I remain an optimist, so I dare to dream of a future in which our love will not be a crime, but will be as honoured as any other. If that day ever comes, I will be content to have it known that once upon a time two men resided in these rooms on Baker Street and that within the walls of 221B they loved one another deeply and forever.

I must close this account now, because Sherlock is calling me to bed and I cannot refuse his summons.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Black Mischief by Evelyn Waugh


End file.
